


the seventeenth shewing

by pelican_in_its_piety



Category: 14th Century CE RPF
Genre: Demon Sex, F/F, Hair Kink, Multi, Setting: Dream or Dream Allegory, a revelation of divine love if you know what I mean, angel as accessory to rape, canon medieval setting, dream religious experience?, sameflash treat, spiky demon cocks, temptation? dark night of the soul? test?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelican_in_its_piety/pseuds/pelican_in_its_piety
Summary: Julian is one of the less erotic medieval mystics...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	the seventeenth shewing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



For a mystic anchoress, Julian is rather chaste. There are reasons for this. In another life she had been a big-boned woolwife, a woman who could rock a cradle with her foot and do the accounts and talk offhandedly about the price of pork, all at the same time. In the life to come – or is this the life to come? Some days she wonders if she did really die then, in the months when her daughters and then her husband and then her mother in law died delirious, and whether her visions had been heaven, and whether if, as she suspects sometimes, this world is all the heaven there is – if this world is all the heaven there needs to be. It looks rather like the city where her husband was a merchant, but now everything is transfigured, brighter, lit up from the outside by God’s love like a stained-glass window.

So wherever she is now – down the road from where she has lived her entire life, or in Purgatory, or in heaven – she has known the fumbling pleasures of a man. She is not sure that God is any more skilled a lover, for all his love. She has known the fumbling pleasures of a man, his scratching at her when he tried to stretch her open on his fingers, his gentle touches that fell on her like seed on stony ground. She was a practical woman. She was not made for bed. And now she is not quite sure what she is. Her body, like the whole world, is transfigured.

She is so very aware of it the way she is aware of the walls of her cell – stone and mortar, big, uneven stones. She knows the position of every one, and whether it is rough or smooth, whether there are lines or flecks of brightness in it. This cell is her carapace, and she is the tender creature inside it, growing more vulnerable by the day. Her monthly courses stopped at Candlemas; it is nearly All Saints now. In the heat of the summer, she cut her hair off with a knife in great ragged skeins, and saw that it was grey. She does not wear a wimple anymore: she is unsexed and unseen. But her body is waking up.

Sometimes, washing, she rubs herself just to see what it feels like. There are days when nothing happens, but sometimes heat and pressure and an aching emptiness spread through her cunt, and she drops her head forward and hisses prayers through clenched teeth. She tells herself that this, too, is oned with God. And then the dreams come.

The acolyte has hair like fire, looped up in plaits, and a kirtle of the finest white wool. She sits by Julian’s bed and gentles her like a mother when she tosses and moans. Sometimes, she even slips a hand under the blankets and between Julian’s thighs. She gives her one finger, another, and Julian whimpers in gratitude while the visitor strokes her hair. Then she steps out into space and vanishes.

And because she is so certain that God would not act except for her good, and because this does feel like the visions, which she knows bone-deep were of God, she lies back and makes her legs fall apart, and tries to feel her cunt.

Demons come too. The acolyte sits behind her and holds her while they fuck her with their spiny black cocks. She writhes in pain at their burning spit as their tongues snake into her, and all the while the acolyte’s long hands play over her belly and through her butchered hair. She does nothing to try to stop them, but pulls Julian’s legs up and presents her to the demons. She stays when they leave and coos over Julian, calling her a good daughter of God, a faithful servant. “You will not be overcome in these trials, will you?” she says and Julian replies, “Not with God’s help.”

But what is it to be overcome? At first Julian struggled and cried out for the demons to stop, to save herself – but should she accept the defilement in faith? Would it be victory to stay silent? And then the pleasure comes in perverse waves, when the demons are cruelest, and Julian has to bite her lip to stop from whimpering. Pleasure might be oned with God, but what about this, pleasure at the hands of demons, pleasure out of torment? The acolyte gives no sign whether this is a triumph or failure, and Julian tries to cling to her insights: but how arrogant and shallow they seem now! She knows nothing, she is but a hazelnut, and she does not know if she is held secure in God’s love or if she has called these demons to herself somehow, whether she has asked for this exquisite torture.

No – she knows some things when the demons are not in her cell. She has not called them. She has only wanted to stay faithful to her Lord, and this fire-haired creature has come to lead her through the trial, to hold her to the flames. But the Lord would not send punishment out of anger, and why has he allowed these demons to come to her? He cannot be angry – or he could be angry, but then everything she has believed would be wrong, and as they – oh – whip her with little lashes, she is not brave enough to believe her shewings were lies.

The acolyte pulls her legs together and back, and the demons, dancing, whip her across her thighs and cunt. All the blood in her body rushes there, and one of them reaches out its forked red tongue and licks the swollen lips. Its spit burns. It digs its claws into her thighs, right over the welts, and pulls her legs apart. The acolyte’s hair is unbound. It falls over her face, and she nuzzles blindly for the acolyte’s heavy white breast. She comes so hard the intensity of pleasure hurts and her whole body shakes. When she can bear to open her eyes again, the acolyte and demons are gone, but the marks of whip and claws on her thighs remain.


End file.
